Creativity Has Consequences
by wolfienur
Summary: '"Cinna," Portia says my name with more urgency now. She wants to know if I'm still alive, though it's absurd to even think otherwise. Of course I am. Of course the Capitol will want to keep me alive, just so I can wish for death.' Oneshot.M for violence


**This is a oneshot of Cinna's time in the Capitol after he's beaten and dragged off by the Peacekeepers before the Quarter Quell. Some parts may read as awkward, because I've never written torture scenes before (and that's a good thing...isn't it?) so apologies for that.**

**Sure you want to read? It's not too late to turn back. x]  
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**Disclaimer: If I owned the Hunger Games trilogy, Mockingjay wouldn't have been so depressing. Sigh.**

* * *

**Creativity Has Consequences**

_Crack._

I yell in agony as the Peacekeeper's heavy, black boots smash down on my ribs. It's an odd sound, like crushing plastic. I can't breathe. Inhaling would do nothing to soothe the searing pain in my side. For a few seconds, I lie there, trying my hardest not to move.

But the Peacekeeper's not done with me yet. He carelessly rolls me over on my back, causing me to gasp. This sends shocks of pain throughout my entire body, like little birds pecking at me, tearing at my flesh.

I hear a whimper to my right. I know who it is, but I wish I didn't. I wish she weren't here, suffering with me.

It's Portia, huddled in the corner, wrists and ankles restrained by heavy shackles chained to the wall. Her hair is greasy and matted with blood. Mine probably looks the same. She's weeping. I have to look away because I don't want her to see the pain registered on my face.

Suddenly, the Peacekeeper is sitting on top of me, straddling me, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from screaming, from scaring Portia.

He's facing my legs instead of my face, so I can't see what he's doing. All I know is that I need to get him off because he's on my broken ribs, and he must weigh more than 300 pounds. The Peacekeeper grabs my right calf with both clamp-like hands and he _twists_. He twists and twists my calf until I can't take it anymore. The only sound louder than my screaming is Portia's sobbing.

I can feel the veins in my neck and forehead bulging as I clench my jaws. Suddenly there's an overwhelming sensation like fire burning away at my knee. I hear a distinct wet, crunching sound. My calf doesn't feel like it's part of my body anymore. The Peacekeeper has twisted it in a way that has snapped the ligaments joining my upper and lower leg.

I yell in pain until my voice finally gives out and nothing escapes my throat. There's nothing left to do but lie motionless, screaming voicelessly. The Peacekeeper gets up – but I can't even find any relief from that act – and stares down at me. He kicks me in the ribs one last time before leaving, taking his cruel laughter with him.

As soon as the heavy steel door slams shut, Portia slides forward with her elbows with some effort. She can't use her legs. She'll never be able to use her legs again.

Not after the Peacekeeper pounded them with a hammer over and over―

"Cinna," Portia's voice is trembling. She stopped just a couple feet away, her chains not allowing her to go any further. If I want to meet her halfway, I'll have to move as well, but the pain is just too much. I stay motionless, staring at the drab tiled ceiling.

"Cinna," Portia says my name with more urgency now. She wants to know if I'm still alive, though it's absurd to even think otherwise. Of course I am. Of course the Capitol will want to keep me alive, just so I can wish for death.

It's the ultimate torture.

No. No, that's not true. The ultimate torture is being forced to watch as they hurt Portia. Small, defenseless Portia who's in here because of me.

"Cinna, answer me!" she's sobbing again. Her chains clink together as she tries to shuffle closer. "_Cinna!_"

I try to relax my mouth enough to tell her I'm okay, I'm fine, but all that comes out is, "Ungh."

But it's enough. She knows I'm still with her. I have not left her alone.

"Your leg…he…" Portia's voice is filled with pain. I try to imagine what she saw: the Peacekeeper gripping my lower leg with two massive hands, slowly, agonizingly twisting it clockwise, ensuring maximum agony. And finally, the sight of my knee going limp as the pressure becomes too much.

I peel my eyes away from the ceiling and focus on my fellow stylist. As always, for the last who-knows-how-long I've been here, I'm racked with guilt. It's my fault she's here, being tortured in the Capitol alongside me.

Just before Katniss had been about to go into the arena – the second arena – a horde of Peacekeepers barged in and kicked me in the head, knocking me out instantly. The last thing I remember seeing is Katniss's face, shocked and horrified, screaming my name and banging on the glass divider. When I came to, I was lying face down in this very same room. My limbs were shackled to a corner of the wall. I noticed another set of restraints across me, but I was too confused to make sense of it. Of anything, really, until a heavy door swung open, revealing President Snow. An overpowering stench of blood and roses immediately cloaked the room, settling into the pores of my skin.

"Hello, Cinna," he smiled, those unnaturally puffy lips of his stretching to their limits.

"President Snow," I said. It took all my willpower not to throw up on his shiny leather shoes.

"You caused somewhat of a stir last night with that dress of yours." He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. When all he got from me was silence, he went on. "And I can't have that. People will start getting _ideas_."

"It's too late for that," I couldn't help but say.

Snow's eyes hardened. He turned his head to the door and gave a nod to someone outside my field of vision. The door opened wider, and a Peacekeeper marched in.

Portia following behind.

No…_no_…

She was blindfolded, wrists bound by rope that the Peacekeeper was tugging her along by, like a dog. He shoved her to the ground and snapped the shackles on her. The frightened whimpers coming out of Portia made my eyes wet. She looked so much like a small animal, being chained before they took her in for slaughter.

When the Peacekeeper left, Snow had calmly walked over to Portia and slipped off the blindfold. She squinted her eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the stark whiteness of the tiles. Snow went to stand by the door, turning to give me one last glance. He smiled, then said, "Creativity has consequences, Cinna. It's a shame things had to end like this."

I'm brought back to the present when Portia reaches out to me and wipes the sweat and blood out of my eyes. Her hollow face is pale and grimy, the light makeup she usually wears is long gone. Washed away by her tears. I have just enough strength left to catch her hand in mine, careful not to touch the fingers that are broken. "I'm so sorry, Portia. I never meant for anything to happen to you." My voice is hoarse and barely audible, but she understands. She clutches my hand as tightly as she can, but doesn't say anything. There isn't anything to say.

I remember the first time I met her. She was eighteen, and new in the Capitol's special school for future stylists. I was nineteen and a loner. People didn't like me because I still had the hair and skin I was born with. No surgical alterations, no dyed or tattooed skin. Simple, black clothes. Portia had caught my eye because although she had unnaturally violet eyes, that was it. She was like me.

Her first day at the school, a couple of scantily clad girls with colorfully dyed skin were ripping pages out of her sketchbook, mocking her designs. This was nothing new. Those types of girls seemed to _need _to make others feel small because of their own lack of talent.

The new girl, I didn't know her name at the time, was trying to get her book back, but the other girls were too tall. I frowned and approached the girl's tormentors.

"Do we have a problem here?" I had said. Their ridiculously high heels made them taller than me, but they'd backed away, exchanging glances with one another.

One of them looked me up and down in disgust, then scoffed to her friend, "Come on, Starr, let's leave these two alone. Looks like they were made for each other." And they'd left, avoiding confrontation in typical Capitol fashion.

"Thanks," the girl mumbled, not looking at me as she scrambled to gather her sketches. I bent down to help her.

"Don't mention it," I said. I picked up a design of a wedding dress and stared. It was an elegant design, simple, traditional. It was unlike any of the wedding dresses seen in the Capitol.

"Could I have that back, please?"

I glanced up at the owner of the meek voice. Her violet eyes were staring at my shoes, but her hands were reaching out for the sketch.

"This…this is beautiful," I told her, handing her the piece of paper. She blushed, murmured a quiet 'thank you' and stood up to leave, stuffing her design back into the sketchbook like it was nothing. Like she was embarrassed.

"Wait," I said, resting a hand on her elbow. "What's your name?"

"Portia," she replied, eyes still looking away.

"Nice to meet you, Portia," I smiled, extending my hand to shake hers. "I'm Cinna."

She hesitated a moment before finally lifting her gaze to meet mine.

"Hi, Cinna," she said, allowing herself a shy smile.

It was the most genuine smile I'd ever seen in the Capitol.

* * *

I've been staring at the ceiling for the last few hours, thinking about Katniss and Peeta and how they might be doing in the Quell. How many days has it been, I wonder. Is the Quell over yet, or is it still going on? Are they dead?

Portia is asleep beside me, our fingers still interlaced. Every now and then, she twitches. She's been doing a lot of that lately. My guess is that something happened to her nervous system. The small muscles throughout her body had probably gotten used to clenching together when the Peacekeeper kept cutting patterns on her stomach and she'd spasmed with pain.

Suddenly, I hear voices outside the door. Strange. Usually, the only sounds that can be heard are the heavy thuds of the Peacekeepers' boots. They weren't supposed to talk when they're in earshot of us.

But the voices I hear don't belong to any Peacekeeper. It's a female voice. An _angry _female voice.

"_Let me go, you worthless piece of_―"

The voice is abruptly cut off by a slapping sound, but I had heard enough to identify it.

Johanna Mason.

What is she doing here? Does this mean the Quarter Quell is over?

I hear someone sigh, in a tired, defeated way. "Look, that wasn't necessary."

I'm so shocked I sit straight up. My broken rib bones jut against my skin, making me cry out. But I don't care. All I care about right now is the voice I just heard.

Peeta's voice.

Peeta is in the Capitol. In the Capitol's _torture_ chambers. Why?

I try to call his name, but my voice is still too broken from the hours of screaming I'd been doing. I know I've missed my chance when the sound of the Peacekeepers' boots get fainter and fainter until it finally stops. I slowly lie back on the floor, panting from the amount of energy it takes to do this simple task.

"Was that Peeta?" I hear Portia whisper beside me. I can hear tears in her voice. She already knows, so there's no use lying to her. I nod and a small wail comes out of her. I hold her to me as tightly as I can. She sobs into my chest and I can't tell which of us is trembling more. Portia had a soft spot for Peeta just as I had one for Katniss.

I've lost all sense of time, so I don't know how long we lie there before the doors open again and the Peacekeeper who's been tormenting us every day comes in, wearing an ugly, twisted grin.

"Well, isn't this sweet," he says, meaning the way Portia and I are curled into each other.

He walks over to the base of Portia's shackles and picks up all four chains connected to her wrists and ankles. Suddenly, he yanks the chains, tearing Portia from my side. She screams, I hear multiple cracks as her shoulders dislocate and her already broken bones are shattered even more. I shriek her name but the pain has taken her too far over the edge that she can't do anything more than make horrible sounds of anguish that hurt me far worse than anything the Peacekeeper's been doing.

"I hope," the Peacekeeper says to me, flinging Portia over his shoulder like a rag doll, ignoring her weak protests, "that you've enjoyed these last few weeks together."

When he turns around to leave, Portia and I make eye contact. Her purple eyes are wet, swollen and bloodshot. I want to tell her that I'm sorry, that I love her and I never meant for anyone but myself to suffer the consequences of my actions. But the Peacekeeper carelessly bangs her head on the metal doorframe and she blacks out before I can say anything.

* * *

One, maybe two days go by since the Peacekeeper took Portia, and I'm relatively ignored. Someone comes in every few hours to inject something in my arm. I know that whatever it is, it's the only thing keeping me physically alive. They don't want me to die just yet.

At one point, a panel in the opposite wall that I'd never noticed before slides open, revealing a small television screen. I peer at the blank screen, suspicious. It abruptly crackles to life, and the breath goes out of me when I see Portia. She's in a wheelchair on the stage where, just a few weeks earlier, Katniss had walked on in a wedding gown and had gone off as a mockingjay. My mockingjay. My mockingjay dress that's been the source of all this heartache.

At first I thought it'd been worth it, when I first landed in this cell. But then I was forced to watch Portia suffer, and now I don't know what to think.

Portia isn't alone on the massive stage. Her prep team is behind her, kneeling. Unlike Portia, they're sobbing and wailing without reserve, completely undignified. She looks like a statue compared to their thrashing forms.

Ignoring my ribs and my burning knee, I try to haul myself closer to the screen, to see if Portia has been hurt since she was taken from the cell. But she looks the same as two days ago, maybe a little cleaner. Her face and body have been wiped clean of the blood and grime, makeup covers the worst of the bruises on her face and arms, but her fingers still look crushed, her legs limp and her face swollen.

Snow appears on stage and the crowd, which had been mostly silent, roars up in noise. Whether the noise is supporting or against him, I can't tell. All I see if Portia, glaring at the snake.

"Citizens of Panem," he says into a microphone, hushing the crowd, "as I'm sure you're all aware, the Quarter Quell is over. Peeta Mellark has been captured and Katniss Everdeen," he pauses, looking straight into the camera and I swear he's smirking at me, at everyone who sees Katniss as a hero, "is dead."

My heart skips a beat. Maybe two.

No.

That can't be true. He's lying!

She can't be dead. Not just because she's supposed to be the face of the rebellion, but because…well, she just can't be!

It suddenly occurs to me that I think of Katniss as some sort of immortal. With her strong spirit and fierce determination, it just…doesn't seem right for there to be a world where she simply ceased to exist.

Snow has to be lying, he _has _to.

On the screen, he's still talking but I've missed the first few words.

"…but there is still talk of an uprising. There are people still on Miss Everdeen's side. And today, you will see how pointless that is. How being on the wrong side of the rebellion will only cause you suffering."

There are three gunshots in quick succession, so loud that I flinch. Snow suddenly has a smoking gun in his hand, and next to him, Portia's prep team lies dead. I can see their blood splattered on her face as she looks on in horror.

The crowd is screeching now. Portia is so busy staring uncomprehendingly at her prep team that she doesn't notice until it's too late that Snow is pushing the gun against her temple. My cry of warning dies in my throat when the bullet goes through her skull.

The screen goes blank.

"PORTIA!" I hurl myself against the TV screen, knowing that it won't change anything but not being able to just sit there and do nothing. My ribs scream in protest at the violent movements, but I don't care. Snow just shot Portia.

He fucking shot her!

There's a bang on the steel door, and a voice yells, "Keep it down, in there!" but that only makes me shout even more. The Peacekeeper marches in, hits me with both fists―

* * *

When I wake up, I have a pounding headache. I groan.

"You're awake."

I wince. It's _his_ voice. He's sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the room, a book in his lap. He wrinkles his nose, "And good thing, too. I don't know how much longer I could have sat here. It smells simply _awful_."

He keeps staring at me, waiting for me to…what? Say hello? Apologize for the stench, even though it's not my fault that there are no bathroom facilities?

"I have a proposal to make," Snow says brightly. "You see, Cinna, you are highly talented. I could use that talent. One must be well dressed to win a war, after all. What do you say? Will you join me?"

I cannot believe my ears.

He has sent Katniss and Peeta back to the arena, made Katniss watch as his Peacekeepers bludgeon me seconds before she has to fight, tortured not only me, but innocent Portia for weeks, murdered her and her prep team, and who knows where _my_ prep team is? He's done all this, and he wants me to help him _dress for success? _What is _wrong_ with him?

"There's nothing wrong with me," he says curtly, and I realize I said the last part out loud.

I reply by spitting a mouthful of saliva and blood on his shoes.

I'm expecting him to yell out in rage, kick me in the face, kill me, something. But all he does is calmly stand up and walk out. Not two seconds after, the Peacekeeper that I have come to despise saunters in. A flash of light blinds me for a moment, and my eyes flicker down to the source. It's something in his hands…he's wearing brass knuckles.

And suddenly I know this is the last thing I will ever see in my life. The Peacekeeper is going to hit me with those brass knuckles with all his might. And he's going to enjoy it.

Snow asking me to be his personal designer was his way of giving me a last chance to live. And I'd said no.

The thought doesn't panic me, surprisingly. I'm strangely accepting of my death. The only reason I'd clung so hard to life before was for Portia. I couldn't have left her alone. And now she's gone, taking my will to live with her.

As the Peacekeeper advances on me, I keep my eyes open. Just like Katniss in the first arena, when that girl from Two had traced the knife across her face.

Those are the things I hang on to before I'm unable to think anymore – Katniss ablaze in the chariot, wearing the fire that so matched her personality. Portia's eyes when she first smiled at me, beginning to trust. The way Katniss's gray eyes had softened when I told her I would be betting on her if I could. The way Portia and I had laughed during those late nights, trying to design costumes that would make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable.

I know the Peacekeeper is annoyed at the smile on my face. He squats over me, one hand grabbing the front of my tattered shirt, the other drawn back, ready to beat my face in. He bares his teeth like a feral animal and growls.

But all I do is hope that the Mockingjay still flies.


End file.
